Memoirs of a Dunmer
by Nillastix
Summary: Dannas Hlaalu, son of a poor but hardworking fisherwoman in Hla Oad, is not a hero, nor a warrior, nor the Nerevarine. This story is of the personal strife of the common Dunmer in Vvardenfell is ill-fated to endure and the consequences which follow.
1. Chapter One: Minanhe

**Chapter** **One**  
><em>Minanhe<em>

"Hlaalu!"

I look up from the fish I'm fileting to see Fadila Balvel staring coldly at me. I don't hold it against her; like most Dunmer, she just looks angry all the time.

"Muthsera Balvel?" I reply quietly. My ma often says—at least as often as a woman who rarely speaks can—not to talk too low, as it's rude and people sometimes cannot hear you. _A word unheeded is a wasted word and only outlanders are wasteful_, I can hear her say in my mind.

Fadila flicks her wrist at me in a strange, violent manner. It is a way of telling someone to stop what they are doing in our little fishing village of Hla Oad. "Are you even supposed to be working today?"

I find myself looking at her incredulously, despite my better nature. "I work every day, muthsera. I'm here to help my mother."

She shakes her head and makes what could have been interpreted as a smile. "Niala can handle herself, Hlaalu. Tomorrow is your birthday. Go relax. The fishing will go on without you."

If no one else in the world can spare me a kindness, it's always Fadila. I nod quickly and strongly say, "Blessings, muthsera," before wrapping my fish in cloth and setting it in a crate filled with fake frost salts; the real thing is far too expensive for us fisherfolk, but we are fortunate to be friendly with the unmentionables at Fatleg's Drop Off, one of whom taught my mother how to make an ice cold powder out of slaughterfish scales. Where she developed her knack for magick and alchemy is something that has always eluded me.

My ma Niala didn't grow up in Hla Oad and I wasn't born here. Shipmaster Salavel often tells a story of how she found my mother, curled up in a ball in a tiny cranny of her ship, _Harpy_, making sure I would stay quiet by putting her hand over my mouth. Salavel says that Niala was scared and emaciated and entirely silent, simply shaking and holding her child. Hla Oad is so accustomed to all sorts of criminals passing through, but a taciturn woman seemingly on the run was source of fascination for them. Naturally, she was taken in with humility, and I've been told that, after the townsfolk plumped her out the best they could with what little resources are available, my mother turned out to be a very pretty Dunmer. The thought is weird to me now because she's thin, sinewy, and hollow. I still love her, but she's a walking corpse in my eyes.

I don't really know what to do with myself, so I decide to look for Minanhe Yissabinissi. As her name implies, she is of Ashlander descent, but really, I call her half-Ashlander because although her father is indeed from a clan (he claims to have left on his own accord, but everyone knows that only those who commit crimes against members of their clan are removed from their brethren), he has not been hesitant to inform me that the mother of his daughter was not. She died giving birth to Minanhe, so there's no point in pursuing the thought of who she may have been.

I'm not afraid to admit that I love her. She's perfect, honestly. Her skin is like onyx, black and iridescent in the moonlight, her hair like a long mane of fire that she keeps so modestly braided down her back, and her eyes smolder like Red Mountain. To be fair, I'm certain that my mind is clouded by my obsession with her, but it suits me just fine. It doesn't hurt that we both know how to fight, either; she's skilled with knives and archery and I found myself favoring one handed blades. Ma says beauty lies in strength and skill.

I finally find her picking apart a dead scrib a few minutes outside of the village with one of her special knives, this one made of chitin, that I spent weeks stealing slaughterfish scales to trade to Trasteve for at Fatleg's—anything to impress a girl, he joked to me. My guess is that she found the scrib already dead and her natural curiosity got the best of her. Not like there's a shortage of kwama in Vvardenfell, anyway. She notices me after a few minutes, obviously surprised that I'm not working, and puts the knife away, standing up and addressing me in her broken, syrupy accent that she adopted from her father at a less severe degree than he.

"Dannas!" she exclaims—of course, she's so soft-spoken that a normal tone is like shouting for her. "Is something wrong at docks?"

I shake my bluish grey head, my greasy black ponytail refusing to follow as it hangs straight down, hardly swaying. "No, 'Anhe. Balvel just let me leave for the day." Then I can't help but smile. "You know what tomorrow is, don't you?"

She rolls her eyes. It's so cute when she does it. "You never let me forget, I am sure. But I not give you present until next morning so you bother someone else."

With that, she spins on her heels, her long plait flicking like a whip behind her, but I've played this game with her before. After Minanhe gets a few yards away, I run over, letting out a battle cry, and tackle her to the ground. She's no match, her body suited better for speed, so I actually grab her shoulders and bring her down on top of me. She giggles as her body lands on mine, bruising me in several places, and all I can do is laugh.

We never get the opportunity to be happy, but something feels different today. It feels like something good is going to happen. She rotates her body and her stomach is flat against mine; there are many spots where our clothing has been tousled and our skin touches. Minanhe's warm skin and heavy breathing press against me and my heart skips a beat. Of course, this is the part where she bats her eyelashes and gets off of me. Of _course_.

I groan a little as I stand, refusing her offer to help me. For a moment, she stares at me a little awkwardly then her lips curl. "Father need me help clean and organize home. You and Muthsera Hlaalu eat with us tomorrow. I cook! Trader from West Gash teach me special dish. I see you in morning by the tree! Before the sun!"

I watch her scurry off and I can still feel her ash skin against mine as I adjust my clothing. _Oh well,_ I tell myself. _The time will come someday_. It's useless to dwell on what is not, however, so I resolve to occupy my free time on my own accord. What is there to do, though? Hla Oad isn't the most exciting place in Morrowind or even the Bitter Coast, seeing as Balmora is close enough for any traveler to avoid the entire region when necessary. Most people say it's the smugglers and other delinquents residing nearby and, of course, at Fatleg's, but they're good enough to us. Maybe they're not the nicest folk around, but trade is trade and they have more Dunmer than outlanders, so they can't be all that bad.

Finally, I end up practicing swinging my rusty iron sword, traded off of Trasteve like most of the things I own, that I keep stashed in a hollowed out stump. The cracks of the metal against soft and rotten logs catch the attention of a nearby guard on patrol. I recognize him even with his helmet on; his name is Arvel, apparently from some plantation out east but couldn't stand the farm life, and he's helped me practice swordplay before when his patrols are particularly unsavory. After he corrects my stance a little and spars for some time, he returns back to the village and I stow my blade.

Exhausted, I decide to spend the rest of my evening at home, trying to clean some of the dishware and floors then making a pithy meal of marshmerrow stew that I manage to find a little scrib jerky to compliment. When Niala arrives from work, she eats the meal without a word as she normally does and crawls into her hammock. I do the same, stripping down to my trousers, and, thanks to my little training session with Arvel, I actually sleep fairly well.

Nix hounds always howl before the sun goes up and it's a habit for me to rise with them. Niala is still sleeping—she normally doesn't get up until the light hits the horizon—so I dig quietly for my nicest tunic, a light blue thing that compliments my darker skin tone, and pull on my shoes, coated in the filth and murk of the swamplands, grabbing a bite of left over jerky promptly leaving for the tree, resisting the urge to sprint. It only takes a couple minutes to reach it, but the air is so thick with dragonflies and cicadas that the noise drowns out the village entirely, making the spot virtually cut off from the rest of the world, a little haven in the middle of the bog.

It takes me a split second to realize that something's wrong. Minanhe isn't anywhere nearby.

"'Anhe?" I call out. No reply. "'Anhe, where are you?"

The air is heavy with fog, so I don't really notice anything amiss with the location itself for a few minutes. After Minanhe doesn't show however, further inspection leads me to something horrible: blood on the mossy grass. I groan. _This is bad_. I touch the red liquid and it's cold and viscous. Rubbing my fingers, I try to imagine why the blood is there at all, so desperately wanting it not to be Minanhe's. She's strong and feisty. There's no way she would let something like this happen.

I continue to investigate the area and I see scratches of fingernails against the tree bark with bits of dirty, yellow nails stuck in the flesh. It's a crime scene. There's no more doubt in my mind.

I don't really know what to do. Should I search around? Should I get Niala or Minanhe's father? A guardsman? My stomach ties in knots and I start to run blindly back to Hla Oad when my foot gets caught and fall over. Knees scratched, I pick up whatever it is that I tripped on.

It's Minanhe's chitin knife.

I decide to go to her home and get her father. After all, I assume that since he once lived amongst the Ashlanders, he's bound to know how to track someone down, especially with all evidence left behind. I rush to his home and, without thinking, slam the door open, making something fall and clang against the floor. I see him sitting at a small table, staring at a book that I'm almost certain he can't read, and he looks up at me calmly. His expression is always unnerving though. He doesn't trust me. He hasn't ever since he learned my surname, despite my insistence that I have nothing to do with the Great Houses.

"Sera Hlaalu?"

I fight the sickness that's been building in my esophagus and choke out a frenzied plea for help. "Sera Yissabi!" Such is the name he has allowed me to address him by, seeing as Ashlander names are so long and unpronounceable for most of us simple fisherfolk. "It's 'Anhe! We were going to…but now she's…come with me!"

He sets the text down and rises quickly. I lead him back to the tree where he immediately scans the area, examining the blood, the claw marks, the grass, and even searching the radius. After a few minutes, he sees something that catches his eye: incomplete marks in the mud. I can't tell if they're from footsteps or dragging because some was clearly trying to cover the tracks. It's my worst nightmare.

"'Anhe.." I mutter.

Yissabi turns to me. "Hlaalu…Dannas. Listen to me." I wait with baited breath. "I follow after my daughter."

"I can help, sera."

He scowls. "You _cannot_. Minanhe is my daughter. She is my responsibility and I am hers. Your responsibility is Muthsera Hlaalu. You cannot leave her."

"Sera, please…"

"No." I can feel my heart drop. There is no arguing with this man. There never was as long as I have known him. "Stay with your mother. She is all which matters to you."

It pains me to know that he is right. "Be careful, sera.

He nods and says something that touches me inside. "And you, serjo."


	2. Chapter Two: Niala

**Chapter Two  
><strong>_Niala_

Sixteen. The end of my innocence. That's what I tell myself as I walk back to Hla Oad. I open the door and see Niala. She's pleasant. She smells better than usual, the reek of fish masked with bittergreen extract. Of course the glow disappears when she sees my face.

"What's wrong, pup?" I miss her voice sometimes. She so rarely speaks.

"Minanhe is gone. Sera Yissabi went to look for her and forbade me from following."

She purses her dry lips. "Friends are fleeting."

"It's not fair."

Ma nods. She is very hard, but she is also understanding. "I cannot offer fair consolation, pup. Let us try to enjoy the rest of your birthday."

Something inside me explodes and I punch at the air, screaming. "So that's it? We're just going to let them go?"

"Calm yourself!" She's admittedly scary sometimes. "If you plan to follow and disobey Sera Yissabinissi's wishes, then do it, but first ask yourself what good this will do you."

That's Niala. Nothing she says is meaningless. Ever. "Yes, mother."

The response pleases her only to an extent because clearly she's about as disturbed as I am. "There's nothing either of us can do. It's the way things go for common folk like us. Permanence is an illusion, pup."

I try to enjoy the rest of my day; the full shock of what's happened hasn't set in yet. Ma gives me a pair of netch leather boots and I almost feel bad because of how much they could have cost, but she just smiles and tells me that my sixteenth birthday is an important one—I should cherish it. Since our dinner plans have failed, Ma haggles with some of the other villagers and manages to procure two thick nix hound steaks, a ground corkbulb and saltrice mash, and half a bottle of imported elderberry wine. I'm amazed by all the things people were willing to give us, seeing as all of us (except for maybe those at Fatleg's) are extremely poor.

"You're a good kid. People are willing to return all the favors you've done them."

I ask her for the names of everyone who donated, regardless, and vow to pay them back, despite her insistence that gifts are gifts. We eat our meal with mirth as I try to block out Minanhe. Eventually, night sets in and we both need to work in the morning, so Niala goes to bed.

That's when I cry.

I'm not supposed to cry. I'm supposed to be a man now, and men aren't supposed to cry—or at least, that's what I've been told. I feel like if I don't, this pain will eat away at the very fibers and tendrils of my being until I'm a husk of a person, just as Niala has become. Sure, she can smile and she can spare words, but really, she looks dead all the time. Even when I look at her sleeping in her hammock, her breathing is so slight that she can't possibly be alive. This isn't what I want to be.

So silently I extinguish the last of the candles we have lit, curl up next to the window, put my head between my knees, and just let the tears fall from my face slowly at first, transforming into a waterfall. I should have gone after them but I was too scared. Now it's useless. I feel useless. I feel like dirt. I must have passed out there, because the next thing I know, the nix hounds are calling again and my head is throbbing.

I'm sixteen. Time to be a man.

I find the tiny bottle of mint oil that Niala keeps for headaches and take a deep breath. It doesn't really help, so I rub a tiny amount on my chest and let the cool scent linger while I change back to my normal work shirt. No one at the docks looks at me or makes eye contact. It's normal for people to come and go (Permanence is an illusion, right?) but everyone knows how close Minanhe and I are, not to mention how young we both are, Minanhe being only a few months older than I. It's irrelevant, though, and we all know it. It's time to move on.

I don't speak the next couple weeks, simply working in silence, practicing with my sword after the docks close. Guardsman Arvel comes by a few times and he doesn't talk either; he just spars occasionally and helps me with my form, using his hands or the tap of his blade. The silence suits me just fine. I'm starting to understand why my ma so rarely speaks.

Suddenly, my numbness is kicked out of me.

I hear the dull thud on the wood while detangling ropes and I don't care to think anything of it. People throw their latest haul, interesting floating trash, and someone even managed to kill a dreugh with their bare hands once and wasn't afraid to gloat about it, so whatever just smacked against the warf couldn't have been my problem. Balvel's screech tells me otherwise.

"Niala!" she cries out.

My ears perk and I drop my handiwork. Rushing to the end of the docks, I see my ma crumpled with her hand pulled to her chest, shaking madly. I reach down to pick her up and a few other workers help me. We carry her back to my house and I cover the single window with a piece of linen, opting that a dull candlelight should be better for her. I search around for something to use—_anything_—and I'm lucky when Balvel rushes in with some of our fake frost salts wrapped in a piece of cloth so skin won't burn to the touch. We strip Niala down to her undergarments and Balvel rubs her down gentle with the cold bundle, wiping away sweat and trying to get her body to stop quivering.

I brush back my ma's black hair from her face and I can feel how hot her skin is. "It's okay, ma. It's okay."

After an examination from Salavel, who has seen every disease I've ever heard of, she confirms a diagnosis. "Greenspore. There's a slaughterfish bite on her back. It must have been festering for days."

I look at Niala's face and bite back my own emotional pain at the sight of her physical. "Why didn't you tell anyone, ma?"

Her eyes are bulging out of their sockets and her voice is ragged. "Hush, pup. I don't need you worrying about me."

I turn to Salavel and see her frown. "I don't suppose a cure disease potion will help?"

She shakes her head. "For the greenspore, yes. The bite, however, is pretty severe. A healer might work if he can start immediately, but it'd take probably three days to get to Balmora and back if they'd even come. By then, the damage might be irreversible."

"No!" I cry out. "That's not good enough! You can't just let her die! She's all I have!"

No one else seems as torn. They're sad, yes, but I'm the only person whose heart is wretched out of his chest. I recall her words. _Permanence is an illusion_. It's the philosophy they all seem to have. It's the way of life in Hla Oad. No one here has a family. No one here has anything and that's why they _are_ here. We're all fleeting. Niala is one in the same. Everyone except Balvel leaves me in silence.

I try to disconnect myself from the idea that she's probably going to die. I clean the wound, cutting off pieces of rotten flesh. I press salt into the bite, drying the fluids and blood that continually seep out. She's stopped shivering and I'm certain she's unconscious. I don't really know how to dress a wound, so I put some saltrice in over the hole, hoping that all the wives' tales about the plant's healing properties are true, and I wrap her entire torso with bandages to keep her from making the injury stretch.

The next priority on my list is work. I heard once that in Cyrodiil, sometimes employers give their workers wages when they are forced to stay at home for things like caring for sick loved ones, but no one can afford that here. I converse with Balvel a little while on the subject, and I can tell she just thinks it would be a good idea to help Niala die faster, but she knows it's out of the question for me. We eventually find Arvel and he agrees to arrange a sort of subtle schedule in order to keep an eye on Niala while I'm at work by making sure a guard is always within earshot and that someone would return to feed her and check her bandages. It's a lot to ask for, but Niala works hard and is respected in the community. They don't like seeing her go any more than I do.

A couple days pass and they're more stressful and painful than I could have been prepared for. Niala is deteriorating fast. She shouts sometimes at me, sometimes at the walls, and sometimes at ghosts. There are few things in the world keeping my going as I watch her slip away—in a rotten barrel, fished off the coast by me years ago, I hoard the netch leather boots I so badly want to keep safe and Minanhe's chitin dagger. The unthinkable crosses my mind and I take my precious items to Trasteve at Fatleg's. He always seems to have a solution to everything and he's not too bad for an outlander.

I carry them into the shack that serves as an open area to divert suspicion from the underground passages bellow and people are a little surprised to see me, Trasteve included. I place the boots and dagger on a crate next to the Redguard.

"Sera," I start and he looks at me funny.

"Your voice has dropped quite a bit these last few years, kid."

I'm a little bothered by the useless comment. "Er, I guess. Listen, Niala is really sick. I was wondering if I could trade these for anything to help her."

He frowns. "These won't pay for a potion but from what I hear, she needs more than that."

"Do you _have_ more?" Desperation is heavy on my breath.

"No." Always blunt. Good old Trasteve. "None of us are healers. I've asked around because I like you. No one can help her. Besides, a healer would probably do no good at this point." I think he can see the tears welling in my eyes because he puts a firm hand on my shoulder. "Take your things back home and I'll give you a little something just in case."

I pick up the boots and stow the dagger in my belt. He hands me a tiny, black vial and wraps my fingers around it, putting his index finger against his lip. I keep my fist clenched around the tiny potion and concentrate, trying to use the skills my mother taught me to feel the properties of the potion. My chest burns and I realize what he's given me. Our eyes meet and he nods slowly.

"Do what you think is right."

I return home and put away my belongings. Niala is trembling, soaked through her bandages. She's thrown the blanket off of herself and she's a mess of pale, naked flesh, crumpled in a fetal position. I've gotten past the point of caring. Her skin is molten and the fresh air hitting her must be her only comfort. Like I have every day now as soon as I get back from the docks, I fix her hair by pulling it into a tight bun and redress her bandages, followed by a mash of whatever I managed to scrounge. Some days I go hungry because her appetite spikes. My stomach growls as I watch her wolf down the last of the corkbulb paste.

I look at the vial that I still have clenched in my hand and then back to Niala. My stomach is turning.

"How much does it hurt, ma?"

She lets out a weak hiss and stares at me with those hollow eyes, followed by a cough. A little blood dribbles down her chin.

"Do you want the pain to end? I can do it."

I can see it in her face before she even answers me. "Please, pup."

Slowly, I tilt her head back and take a deep breath. There's no time to think. There's no time to justify or demonize. All that is present is inescapable pain for both of us of two different flavors. The black liquid pulsates in its container. I swallow my own guilt as I pour it into her mouth and massage it down her throat.

After a few minutes, Niala stops shaking.

* * *

><p>Author Notes<p>

- In case anyone is curious, this story starts around 3E 405. For reference, Morrowind starts in 3E 427, which is the same year the Blight storms start.

- This chapter is posted so early because, well, when I posted the first, I already had written halfway through the fourth. Just proofreading and editing, then posting. That doesn't mean I don't miss a couple things, though! c:

- Recognize this a little bit for some reason? That's because around three years ago, I wrote another version of this, but I didn't like the way it was going and never got past the third chapter, only posting the first. I also changed my penname from VanillaKnight to Nillastix. So yes, you _may_ have seen something like this before, but it was written by me, now deleted.


	3. Chapter Three: Mercenary

**Chapter Three  
><strong>_Mercenary_

About a mile north of Hla Oad, there's a small hill next to a murky pool with a carved stone as its marker. Every Tirdas, I make a point to trek out there and place whatever I can atop the stone, normally some local flora, and I kneel before the petty grave.

_Forge a keen Faith in the crucible of suffering.  
><em>_Engrave upon thy eye the image of injustice.  
><em>_Death does not diminish; the ghost gilds with glory.  
><em>_Faith conquers all. Let us yield to Faith.  
><em>_Better to suffer a wrong than to do one._

"Better to suffer a wrong than to do one," I often repeat when reciting the verse. The words once held weight to me, but they've since disconnected. Six years have passed since I dug this grave. There are no tombs for me to have placed her in. I cannot afford to send her to Necrom. I was at a loss when she died. An Imperial named Pallia Ceno told me that her people back home bury their dead deep in the ground and mark the locations with special stones, leaving flowers whenever they think of their dead loved ones. I decide it isn't too unlike my own people's traditions, so she helped me dig a grave for her. Ceno knew a blessing that she modified to fit the Tribunal. I don't really think about religion anyway, despite how many sermons she taught me, so it suits me just fine. The only problem is that I think about her all the time, so I dedicate only one day a week to her.

I return to Hla Oad. It hasn't changed much these six years. A few buildings have been replaced, Fatleg's Drop Off is a little bigger, and someone long ago took up residence where the Yissabinissis resided, but nothing about it really matters to me. Being one of the few men on the docks has made me strong, most of the hauling and heavy lifting being diverted to me, and this strength has allowed my swordplay skills to improve, so I've invested in a strong, study, steel longsword that I keep not polished but still very clean so as not to let it rust. Everywhere I go, I don my netch leather boots and keep Minanhe's chitin knife at my hip.

I've started selling out my services as a bodyguard to the passing adventurers, helping men clear out smuggler caves, cleanse cursed tombs, and take down bandits. The work overlaps my duties at the docks, but the pay is better, albeit an unreliable source of income. A reputation builds around me as an efficient and silent soldier. I suppose I've taken after my mother despite myself. Words are cheap, but that doesn't mean you should waste them.

A knock on my door early one morning stirs me out of bed. I put the dagger at my belt but don't bother putting on a shirt. Anyone who doesn't have the decency to bother me at a reasonable hour doesn't deserve my courtesy. I open the creaking wooden rectangle and behold a fairly well-equipped Imperial with hazel eyes wearing a half helmet of iron, a mess of wavy brown hair sticking to his sweaty, tanned skin. He looks nervous.

"Can I help you, sera?" My voice has gotten dark and grainy. I'm the epitome of Dunmer, I swear.

"Are you Dannas Hlaalu?"

"Are you aware of how late it is?"

The quickness of my retort takes him aback a little. "I don't mean to intrude. I just came to ask for your…er, services, and was wondering how much you would charge to clear out a tomb from bonewalkers. I just came back from the Tharyus Ancestral Tomb south of Balmora. In town they said you were the best for the job."

I hate to think of why he was there in the first place, obviously not worried about the family resting there, but gold is gold. "That's about a day's trek from here, yes?" He nods. "Fifty septims."

His eyes widen a little. "F-fifty? Ah, well, alright, I can spare that. Yes. It's very important. You see, I—"

"I don't care, sera. Twenty-five up front. Twenty-five when we leave. Your head if you try to double-cross me."

He gulps and reaches into a velvet pouch, retrieving the down payment. "Ah, yes, see, this is…ah, one, two, three…"

I snatch the gold and count twenty-seven in a second. Part of being a fisherman—analysis with numbers and mass is key. I toss him the two extra coins and pocket the rest. "A moment." It's a bit of a ritual for me. I put on my boots and tunic then strap on my gear—a full set of netch leather armor. It took me years to build up the entire outfit, but topped off with my blade, the intimidating appearance I get from it surely makes up for its price tenfold. It also has allowed me to charge more because the more armor you have on, the less questions people ask. I fill a lightweight burlap sack with some rations and linens and leave my dwelling.

The Imperial furrows his brow when he sees me return. "That's all?" he asks, eyeing the small sack.

"I have enough for three days. It's plenty." I start to direct him out of town and he seems a bit surprised with how forward I am during the entire process. Some people think too hard about simple matters. "Your name, sera?"

"Bendu Olo."

I smirk. "Funny name. Is that popular in Cyrodiil City?"

He shakes his head. "Never been."

The exchange is enough to lighten his mood and he wears a goofy smile for another hour as we hike through the wilderness, widely avoiding critters and people—an easy task before the sun rises. He tries a few times to make idle conversation but I ignore him; eventually he takes the hint and awkwardly leads the way. Our trip is fairly uneventful and the sun makes its full cycle over the horizon. We reach Tharyus in same darkness that we left in.

"Should we camp inside?" Olo asks. "It gets kind of cold out here at night…"

"Don't be a baby," I growl. "Surely your armor will keep your warm enough. Not like you're nude."

"I feel nude," I hear him grumble, but I shrug it off. "Well, I'm going to light a fire and—"

I plop onto the dirt just in front of the tomb and the sound cuts him off. "No fires, outlander. Just rest."

It's not easy to go to sleep, but the long walk made my legs a little stiff so I decide to lie down and watch the sky. There's not really much to look at besides a couple insects and a cliff racer or two, the latter being the reason I forbade any sort of beacon. Olo tosses and turns constantly, clearly unnerved in this terrain. I'm not sure if he's even been to Morrowind before.

Sleep doesn't ever really come to me; mostly I just watch the window or walk around Hla Oad at night. For a couple years, I had Arvel to walk with. We hardly ever spoke, mostly just strolling in silence, but it was as much as conversation in itself. A little over three years ago, Arvel was transferred and works on his family's plantation, and since then I've been a little unable to attach myself to anyone; I'm friendly with people like the dockworkers and the folks at Fatleg's Drop Off, but really I avoid talking about anything more than business.

Hours pass and I don't really find myself bored. I don't even know that morning is nigh and the nix hounds, Azura's alarm, start up. Olo groans and rolls around as nature awakes, the hum of insects clearly not as peaceful to him as it is to me. It's actually amusing for me to watch him struggle with his exhaustion. Eventually he hauls himself off of the dirt, rubbing his little, round Imperial eyes.

"These monsters are louder than wolves and roosters combined!"

I can't help but glare at him. "Says the man who's been complaining since we left Hla Oad."

The comment catches him a little off guard and he frowns. "I…You're right, Hlaalu. Let's just clear out this tomb, alright?"

I silently agree and pull myself together, wiping away a little bit of the mud. He seems a little repulsed by the filth in the Bitter Coast and West Gash. I wonder with hilarity if he has any idea what we're about to get into. With an offhand sneer, I bid him to follow me into the tomb. By Azura I can't stand outlanders.

As I pick the lock, the rusted old thing cracks under the pressure and falls off completely. Shrugging it off as a fated convenience, I heave the decrepit door forward and it lets out a high-pitched moan, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Old, thick, and putrid air assaults my every sense, my throat itching, my eyes watering, my skin crawling, my mouth foaming, and the creak of the door still ringing in my ears. Olo doesn't get the full blast of the impact behind me, so he tries to urge me forward but I simply can't move for a moment. How did he know there were bonewalkers in here? This door hasn't been moved in centuries, I'm sure.

My guess is that the dark, haunting screams gave them away. They're everywhere. I don't think I've ever been in such an active tomb—it's clear to me that someone or something was put here a long time ago that definitely should not be present. Perhaps someone teleported inside. I hate the idea. I know necromancy is legal in some parts of the empire, but I hate it passionately. The idea is disgusting, and I wonder why other people can't respect their ancestors like mine do.

Olo is audibly clicking his teeth and it sets me on edge. "Did you buy that armor yesterday or are you just stoopid?"

He lets out a sigh. "I'm not used to this kind of thing. Bonewalkers seem different from just zombies."

"That's because they are," I snap, turning my head to him. This man is really getting to me. "They're specific to my people. Normally they exist to guard tombs so really this is desecration. I can't say I'm a huge fan of them, though."

It's all I can get out before the screaming elevates in pitch and my face whips back around to witness one of the grotesque creatures running toward me. I've fought them before and prevailed, but every time it's unnerving, from their unseeing, mad eyes to the bones protruding from their mottled flesh, oozing with blood and ichor. A bonewalker's form is vaguely human, but his face is sunken, his body engorged, and his very essence something of evil. The foul beast has its arms, ending in sharp claws, raised before me but I take a step to the side, allowing it to thrust himself into the unthinking Olo. I swear as the monster starts to alter his assault to the man he just knocked over, half expecting it to continue attacking me, so I go in for the charge, sword ready, and plunge my weapon into its back. The bonewalker sputters and hisses, trying to turn but hopelessly stuck on the blade. During one of his writhing jerks, I remove my sword and cleanly sweep it between its neck and shoulders, effectively ending its reign of terror.

Olo, clearly uninjured other than from his back slamming against the stucco stairwell, lets out a yelp as another one of the undead come barreling toward us, but I take it out as efficiently as I did the first. Bonewalkers are notoriously brainless servants in their lesser forms, their flesh so soft and rotten. Only two must be in the area, because the moans die down again in the distance as soon as the second bonewalker hits the floor. Olo is panting and shaking, fumbling for his own sword.

"This is why I charge so much," I remark calmly as I help him stand. "You're alright, sera?"

He looks like he's trying to respond, nodding his head wildly, but I can't get reaction from him. It's as if there's something behind me, which is preposterous due to the simple fact that all undead make a significant amount of noise. It's in their nature. I finally give in to his fear and turn around and that's when I see it.

It's inches away from me. The eyeholes are completely empty, leaving bleeding holes that discharge all manners of foul smelling liquids. The nose is small and the cartilage worn off, creating an almost arrow-like shaped void in the center of its face. The jaw is low, detached, and absent of teeth and gum, hanging open like a bleeding hammock. I can see worms and beetles digging in and out of the gaunt feature, making my skin crawl. The scratchy breathing only just at this moment is audible.

I remember the face so clearly, of course, because in an instant, something stabs into my stomach and something evil, cold, and sickening explodes inside my body. Naturally, I pass out.

* * *

><p>The passage in italics is from Saryoni's Sermons by Archcanon Tholer Saryoni. The text can be read in full at the Unofficial Elder Scrolls Pages. Google it. :)<p> 


	4. Chapter Four: Balmora

**Chapter Four  
><strong>_Balmora_

Chokeweed and…something else. I can't quite put my finger on the scent. I open my eyes for only a split second but the light it blinding. I squeeze my sockets shut and try to turn onto my side, letting out a little groan, but a strong hand holds me down on my back. The air feels so cold around me and I realize that I'm wearing only my pants—there's some sort of thick fabric wrapped around my stomach and that's when I feel the pain. My gut is on fire and I grit my teeth.

"I knew you weren't dead."

The voice is unfamiliar. "Where am I?"

"The temple." I finally open my eyes and blink for a few moments before I behold an older Dunmer with dusty black hair. He's crushing chokeweed into a mixture of a greyish spongy paste and yellowish water in a modest mortar with an unattractive pestle.

"You're lucky you're even alive, sera. The farmer who found you heard the screams and saw some outlander over your body with a summoned monster. Didn't catch him. Probably for the best because he had two swords that he clearly knew how to use-one was covered in your blood."

"Two...? By Azura's tits, how didn't I know?"

The man scoffs. "That would explain why you have no gold."

I'm not sure which offends me more—the fact that I was robbed or that this healer sifted through my pockets while I was dying to figure that out. Or maybe I'm still dying. I look at the potion he's been working on and wrinkle my nose indignantly. It looks dreadful.

"Consider this cure disease potion on the temple. Chokeweed and mucksponge surprise."

"Why?"

His eyebrows furrow as though I just refused to give _him_ a potion. "Because this is the _temple_. We never turn away someone as sick and injured as you. Especially when they're dropped on our doorstep, half robbed and with a sword wound through their stomach."

I start to put two and two together. "I'm in Balmora."

"Of course, sera."

Oh. I forgot all about manners. I guess that happens when you're dying. "A sword wound? I was attacked by a bonewalker. And I'm sick?"

"Cursed too, but I cured that as soon as you got here—you might still feel the aftermath, though. You have Brown Rot. And yes, it was most certainly a sword. At a weird angle. Must have done it from behind. You had a few claw marks on you, but they were shallow and fresher than the impalement; there's where you got the disease. They healed up nicely."

My head is swimming and I try to sit up, to no avail. The healer sighs and lifts me, propping my back against a pillar. It hurts intensely, but the upright blood flow is certainly a relief and certainly worth the pain. I gingerly touch my wrapping and let out a hiss of agony. The healer is finally finished with his potion and hands it to me, straight from the stone mortar, almost forgetting to take the pestle out. I consider it hesitantly then realize it's better to suffer the atrocity than the disease, so I quickly pour the entire thing into my mouth. There's a moment of disconnect when I allow it to slide down my throat, but after a little bit, my tongue catches and I spew most of it straight forward, the chunky bluish green-grey stuff splattering against the floor. The healer laughs a little then nods to a nearby priest to clean up the mess.

"You got more down than most."

"Do you just make it as disgusting as possible for fun?"

A smirk tells me _yes_. I can't help but be grateful, though, seeing as I should be dead this very moment. It's time to man up, I decide, and I hand him the mortar with a careful nod. "Azura's blessing, sera. I owe you my life."

He takes the bowl and shakes his own head. "No debts. They say Dunmer are riddled with misfortune and I take pity upon those who prove this theory correct."

The comment is a little offensive, but I shrug it off. "Your name, sera?"

"Salvani. Telis Salvani."

"Dannas Hlaalu."

"You are of the House Hlaalu?"

I frown. I hate it when people ask me this. "Not to my knowledge. It was my mother's name. I've never questioned it. I don't think it's too farfetched of an assumption, but she never commented on it."

Salvani takes in the information and puts his alchemical implements aside. "You're not from here, then. Seyda Neen?"

"Hla Oad, sera."

The final piece of the puzzle seems to satisfy him and he stands. "Well, Hlaalu of Hla Oad, you've been here about a week…" _A week? Seriously?_ "…and I'm afraid our hospitality can only last a few more days. You should be able to function by then. I'm sure I can convince the caravaner to send you back when you're ready. All I ask is for you to do a few odd jobs here and there…" but I don't hear whatever he says next.

My mind tries to grasp my entire life this very moment. Minanhe is lying on top of me. Cold blood stains the moss and the mushroom tree is covered with scratches. Sera Yissabi is staring me in the eye. He's calling me "serjo" and then he's gone. Then there's my mother. I have so many strong memories of her. Niala is stroking my cheek when I'm sad, showing me it's okay to cry when no one's watching. She's setting an example to me on how to work on the wharf, teaching me how to be a man and earn a living. She's shining the clay dishes, presenting to me that it's different to be vain than it is to have pride.

And then I see her writhing in pain. I see her bulging eyes, her ashen skin, her dry lips, her slacken jaw. She's tense and scared. But she's so young. Too young. I'm too young as well. I see myself. Disconnected from my body. There's the vial. I so badly want not to do it. _Stop, Dannas. Don't do it._ But the other option, continuing to watch her suffer? It's so much worse.

I must be staring into space, probably crying, because Salvani has a hand on my shoulder.

"Hlaalu, did you hear me?"

Reality hits me all at once. "I can't go back, Sera Salvani."

He frowns. "You're a countryman. There's nothing for you here."

"Then I'll _make_ something for me here!"

I can't do it. I can't look into the faces of the people I once knew. Even though no one will say it, everyone knows that there's blood on my hands. Even Balvel, who's a kitten in kagouti's clothing…she is fully aware of what happened that cold afternoon when I was sixteen years old.

No words need to be exchanged between us. The healer takes a deep breath and removes his hand from me, straightening to a full stand.

"I'll have our _other_ Hlaalu bring you something to eat and a bit of mazte. You know, to keep your spirits up."

The comment doesn't really make sense to me until about an hour later when a pretty, young Dunmer comes bearing a plate of scrib jelly and a mug of the common, cheap alcohol. She smiles a little as she hands me the meal and I set it down next to me, in awe of her apparent innocence. Strange that this girl is a priest at all.

"It is good to see that you are awake, sera."

I return her smile. By Vivec, she is _really_ pretty. "I'm happy to be awake, muthsera. Did Salvani say your surname is Hlaalu?"

She blushes a little. "I don't bother with house politics…"

"I'm only asking because that's my name."

The girl purses her thin grey lips. "It's a common name, sera. I am Llathyno Hlaalu."

"May I call you Llathyno? It would be a little odd for me to call you Hlaalu."

Llathyno nods quickly. "Yes, of course sera…?"

"Dannas Hlaalu. Just Dannas, actually."

She brushes her brownish grey hair behind her ears. "Well, Hla—er, Dannas… Please eat and call if you need anything else. We can't offer much, but we'd very much like to make sure you recover."

I can't help but smirk. "I'd like the same."

Another sharp nod. "Please try to lie down. You might reopen your wound." As soon as Llathyno leaves, though, my little moment of grace is gone. There's a void inside of me that not even casual courtship (with someone I couldn't really court anyway) can fill.

I stare at the wall across the room without eating. I'm hungry, yes, but I've grown accustomed to hunger. It reminds me that I'm alive. In the last six years, I've become the empty shell I've never wanted to be. So often, I try to be a living being, grasping at the airs, the emotions, the happiness that makes people _people_, but I just can't stand it anymore. Perhaps not returning to Hla Oad will help, but there's still nothing inside of me.

I need to make a difference—or at least do something different. What I've done with my life so far, fishing and fighting…it isn't working. Somewhere inside of me, I feel something that Niala always told me was the greatest danger but the greatest weapon of man and mer: ambition. I don't know what I want to do or what I want to be, but I know I have to be something more. I'm capable, aren't I?

I'm in the place to act upon my ambition, too. Balmora. The city.

After my few days remaining almost completely sedentary, a little walk here and there, I finally am able to explore the bulk of Balmora better, although walking is still quite painful. I'm not quite sure what I expected Balmora to be—a grand fantasy of gold and gondolas and happy, singing people or just a bigger, less malodorous Hla Oad—but it comes at a bit of a surprise to me. It doesn't smell as bad (which I realize should have been obvious, seeing as I'm not in the Bitter Coast anymore) but it isn't anything incredibly grand. The buildings are far more permanent, mostly stone and stucco with studier wood compared to the half-rotten shacks of Hla Oad. The river isn't clear, the streets aren't clean, and the faces aren't friendly, but the guardsmen are here with full force (I can't help but wonder if Arvel is one of them) and there are homes and businesses and people everywhere, so it's a sight to behold regardless.

The nobles are the most bizarre to me. Few ever pass through Hla Oad, but they always seem to be just passing from boat to boat, never getting into the main parts of our village. These are more casual, wearing extravagant robes and decorative shoes made from delicate cloths and thin leathers. Their hairs are tied up shiny baubles and their faces painted delicately with makeup. Many wear dainty gloves and take small steps. Everything about them seems…unnecessary and impractical.

They don't seem to mind and I try not to stare. On accident, I bump into a Dunmer woman in gold and orange finery who spits upon me. _Some manners_.

"Filthy creature!" she shrieks hoarsely. "Go join a guild or something and be something of worth to society!"

I back off sheepishly as she catches up with a man who looks very similar to her, probably her brother, and I can't help but wonder if she's right. I think of the only show run by mostly by Dunmer: House Hlaalu. They take in all kinds of people, so hopefully I'll be able to join them.

It takes me about an hour to actually find the headquarters, and the first person I see doesn't seem much unlike the nobles around town, although her attire is a little simpler. Her robes are a dark chocolate and her hair is snow white, pulled up tightly from her face. It's the makeup that really sets her apart, her eyebrows practically drawn on in a dramatic arch—dramatic even for our shared race—and they contrast her dusty blue face which doesn't quite match her neck. Her dark plum painted lips are twisted down in a severe grimace, certainly at the sight of me, a gawking commoner. I realize that perhaps I should have put on my armor that I left at the temple before coming here, self-conscious of my standard tunic-pants-boots attire.

"What do you need?" she asks smoothly. Her disgust at my entrance into the grand, wood-stone-and-stucco hall is not lost to me behind her patient tone.

"I'm looking to join the House."

"And who exactly are you?"

I freeze. This is the first time the name "Hlaalu" has had any weight to me. Why did my mother bear the name but not the House? I realize that perhaps there are far greater reasons as to why she arrived at Hla Oad stowed away on a small boat, why we lived in poverty my whole life and why I still do. I'm desperate to think of another name. I vaguely remember a man from Fatleg's who I've never had much contact with. I decide to use his surname as my first. My mind then wanders to a woman I've known my whole life.

"Gavyn Balvel."

She looks at me for a moment and I silently pray she doesn't know any part of the name. Finally the woman nods. "My name is Nileno Dorvayn. If you're willing to take the oath, I already have some jobs in line for you."

My eyes widen. I can't believe this is really happening. "Yes, Muthsera Dorvayn!"

The oath is simple, mostly just an oral pledge with a witness, and I tell Dorvayn what few skillsets I know. She seems a little surprised at the swordplay, obviously distracted by my clearly weakened state (I walk with a limp sometimes when the pain in my stomach gets worse) but I tell her about Olo.

"I hope you don't have too many qualms with outlanders because of this. There are many amongst our ranks."

I do have a lot of qualms with outlanders actually. "No, it was an isolated incident, muthsera."

"Good, hireling."

After the arduous process is over and I earn a spot in the living quarters, I start getting assigned small delivery, fee collection, and messenger tasks to nobles and commoners alike in Hla Oad. The process seems to go by a little smoother and a little faster after I've healed more when I'm wearing my armor. Eventually, I make enough money to replace most of what Olo had stolen from me: my sword, about forty gold, a few potions, and a small, cheap locket bearing the symbol of the Almsivi. I count the fact that he didn't get a chance to steal Minanhe's dagger or my precious boots as a blessing from Vivec himself.

A few weeks pass and my stomach doesn't hurt as often or as severely it does, and clearly Dorvayn takes note. She approaches me one morning while I'm eating breakfast—or, rather, sitting in the common area and watching others eat breakfast.

"Hireling Balvel, I have an interesting job for you."


End file.
